


so small, so sharp

by teaDragon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!Aziraphale, Fluff, Hospitals, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Squick, Needles, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), mentioned but sadly not the focus of this story, soft soppy husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 17:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: Aziraphale is horribly squeamish around hospitals and more specifically, around needles. It's embarrassing really, for a Principality to quake at such a silly thing. Such a helpful thing! Seeing as all the good modern medicine has done for the world. Thankfully his experiences with such places have always been quick in-and-out healings of other people, he's never had to experience the wonder of modern medicine firsthand.Until a run-in with a power hungry Arch-Duke of Hell leaves Crowley discoporated and Aziraphale on the wrong end of the surgical knife...





	so small, so sharp

**Author's Note:**

> If hospitals or needles squick you out, this is probably not for you.

The infernal discorporations office was silent save for the scribbling of the clerk seated at the massive mahogany desk, and the ticking of a huge glowering grandfather clock placed directly behind.

It was one of those properly ominous clocks, a heavy wrought-iron job dripping with twisted patterns and designs that resemble unsettling faces. It was hard not to feel that the clock might eat you if it got the chance. Each _tick tock tick tock_ pressed down on the room, each second stacking up damningly in increasingly uneven intervals. It was the stuff of nightmares*. 

*This particular clock had in fact been a recurring feature of an orphan’s nightmare in 1836, and had make such an impression on a passing dream demon that she had hurried back Downstairs and had plans drawn up for one to be made for the office back home that very night. Humans really did have the best stuff.

Tidus, the clerk, liked the clock very much. It set just the sort of mood an infernal waiting room ought to have. He was a squat, beetle-like demon, and spent his days pouring over files with several beady eyes, fixing said eyes on those demons unfortunate enough to get discorporated on the job. What stringy hair he had was slicked back in a bad comb over.

Right now the rows of uncomfortable waiting chairs sat empty. In fact, it had been some many years since there had last been anyone down here, aside from Nybbas across the hall who liked to stop by to gossip and lurk in the office utilities closet on break.

_BANG_

The Ornate double doors slammed open, omitting a furious figure.

Tidus jumped. He looked down at desk. His pen had dragged a wide blotchy line clear across form A6-K. It was barely legible. _Perfect_. He grinned down at it, antennas twitching gleefully. This happy accident would have distracted him entirely had the newcomer not slammed his fist against the desk and sent the papers flying.

“Get me a new corporation,” it hissed. Furious slitted eyes bored across at him, promising all sorts of nasty cruel things should he not obey immediately. “_Now!_”

Tidus blinked his many eyes in astonishment. “Crowley,” he clicked*. “Blimey, is that you?”

*The only way to describe the sound of his voice. Having a sideways jaw made up of pincers will do that.

“Me,” agreed Crowley . Long claws extended from his fingers, tearing deep gorges in the wood of the desk. “And if you, Tidus, my old pal, don’t get me a shiny new corporation _right now_, you’re going to wish it wasn’t.”

“Eh?”

“Wasn’t me!”

“Ugghh…” It took a moment to click together. Tidus stared at him. “Ah! You’re threatening me with violence.”

“Yeah.”

“Grievous harm to my person.”

“Yeah.”

“An assault to my—“

“Yes! Yes I am!”

Tidus grinned widely. “Ere! That’s more like it! That’s what we like to hear!”

Crowley deflated like a punctured balloon*, loosing his bluster “What?”

*Without the funny sound effects.

“_Crowley,_” Tidus leaned back in his chair amicably. He reached down with one of his arms and drew a file out from a drawer. “You’re finally acting like a proper demon.” He wagged a finger at him. “Didn’t think you had it in you. We’ll have this ready for you in a few days.”

“What—really?” Crowley had the air of a person who had made a desperate, utterly hopeless gamble only to have it actually pay off and wasn’t entirely prepared to deal with the fact.

“Yep.” He tapped the middle of his face where his nose would have been. “Asked for it proper, see.”

“You—“ Crowley cut himself off. “Are you saying,” he began lowly, “that all the times I’ve spent down here, waiting for weeks and weeks for a new corporation, was because I didn’t threaten you?”

Tidus laughed. “Ah, you’re a card, Crowley. Course it was! Where do you think you are? Can’t have you goin’ soft now, can we? Didn’t you see the sign?”

“What sign?” cried Crowley.

“Just under that pile there. Ehh, the pile behind th’other pile.”

Crowley stalked across the room and pushed over a precarious stack of papers and foul moldy folders. Behind it was a poster reading ‘Snarl for Service,’ in comic sans.

He stared at it. It stared back, mocking him. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Tidus was laughing, a big belly laugh that rattled all of his arms and made his stomach click unpleasantly as the plates rubbed together. “Thought you were a masochist, is all. Liked the waiting.”

“_Liked_—“ Crowley stared at the poster blankly, feeling like his life was passing before his eyes.

“’Ere you go.”

Tidus flicked a paper at him. He caught it on reflex. The form started to fill itself out in thin, glowing script as stared at it. “Thanks,” Crowley said out of habit.

“Oi! Language! I’ll ‘ave to tack on a week for that.”

This was too much for Crowley, who had already gone through quite a lot today before his little epiphany, and was entirely at the end of his rope.

“Do NOT try me with that!” he exploded. “If thisssss corporation issssn’t ready to go in a day, I’ll—you’ll—_sssssserioussssly_ regret it!”

“Ah ah—“ Tidus held up a hand. “Regret _how?_”

“I’ll—ssssss—I will _perssssonally_ —mnnnnghk—“ he spluttered for a moment, trying to think up a good one, “—I’ll pull your sssspine out your head and beat you with it! They’ll have to take you to the _cleanersssss!_”

Tidus grinned and winked all six eyes on the left side of his face. “Originality Crowley. I like it.”

Crowley screamed wordlessly, the wallpaper curling at the horrible sound. He slammed the completed form down on the deck and stormed out of the room, leaving actual smoke in his wake.

“Very nice, very nice,” Tidus muttered to himself in approval. It wasn’t the best exit he’d seen this decade, but it was nothing to sneeze at. 

He glanced down at the form Crowley had hastily filled out. Then he stopped and properly stared at it. “W_ell_. Bested an Arch-Duke, has he? Never would have guessed it of ‘im.” He clicked to himself, reading it over. “Must be eager to re-stake his territory.”

He grasped a dark wrought-iron stamp, pressed it against a bed of dark red ink and stamped it on the form. ‘EXPRESS’ it read.

The loss of an Arch-Duke of Hell was a relatively minor thing. There was always room for downward mobility*, and a good bit of plotting and assassination brought out the worst in everyone. But for someone of lower rank like Crowley to have killed an Arch-Duke was remarkable. If he kept it up he just might be in line to inherit the title.

*As opposed to upward mobility. The more important you were, the further down the Circles you went. No one could go any higher up than limbo.

Outside in the hallway Crowley was pacing restlessly, wishing very much that he was back on Earth.

He was having…a bad day. In fact, it was possibly one of the worst days he had ever had, and he had lived through various wars, plagues, revolutions and the 80s fitness craze.

Six minutes ago he had been violently discorporated.

Discorporation was never fun, and his had been rather violent. He had been attacked by an Arch-Duke, some power hungry, half-witted upstart fresh out of Hell, trying to take over his territory.

It had been one hell of a fight. The other demon had been reduced to a sizzling puddle on the floor, but Crowley’s corporation had been too damaged by the end to salvage.

That hadn’t been the worst part of it.

No, what had made this discorporation both the most painful and the most gentle had been the stupid _blessed_ angel cradling him as he slipped away, using the last of his magic trying to heal a _demon_ even as…

He hissed aloud. The hand that came up under his sunglasses to cover his eyes was shaking.

Stupid, _stupid_ angel. For as long as he’d known him Aziraphale had possessed the self-preservation instincts of a blessed _duck_ trying to seek out something tasty under a bench. 

Of course he’d gotten involved. Of _course_ the ridiculous angel had jumped to Crowley’s defense, brandishing a fire poker as if it were the flaming sword he had foolishly given away all those years ago instead of keeping it to defend himself for just such an occasion. Of course he had gotten his best coat stained with bright, florescent venom of the most infernal nature.

If that Arch-Duke had ever received any personal title—aside from ‘massive pulsating sack of excrement’—it would have been ‘most likely to bite with incredibly venomous fangs’.

Aziraphale hadn’t even _tried_ to heal himself. Instead the bloody angel had held Crowley in his arms, healing him as best as he could even when it was awfully painfully apparent Crowley corporation had well and truly bitten the dust.

That was Hellish Venom. It earned the capital H. It was Infernal. Malevolent, Devilish, Damned, Curséd, Demonic stuff, the opposite of Holy, the antithesis of Divine, inverse of Blessed, antonym of Hallowed —

It was bad news was what it was. Especially for a soft, foolish angel who had gone and gotten himself bitten by an Arch-Demon dripping with the stuff. Bitten while trying to protect a demon.

Crowley sucked in a shaky breath.

If Aziraphale hadn’t been discorporated he would be in a whole world of pain. Best case he had saved enough of his energy to heal himself and was lay low for a while, recovering. Worst case he was discorporating slowly on the cold floor of the underground, where the grand smack down had happened*.

*There was the slim chance his wounds would prove fatal. Permanently fatal. Crowley refused to think of it. He _refused_. A world without his angel wasn’t one he could bare to imagine, and Crowley had an unusually powerful imagination for a demon.

He shoved his hands as far into his pockets as he could* and huffed a sigh. It came out as a long hiss, worry and anxiety churning within him. 

*Made astoundingly difficult on account of how impossibly tight he wore his trousers, and how tiny his pockets were. This was another embarrassing case where he had outsmarted himself. The commendation had been nice, but he was beginning to regret the whole thing.

He would get back. He would find his angel, and Aziraphale would be _fine_. Crowley would spend the rest of the day, or night (rest of his _life_ if he had his way) plying his angel with wine and sweets and soft comforts until Aziraphale was aglow with it, radiating sheer delight with the force of a nuclear power base, his very own ray of blessed sunshine Crowley could bury himself in, and forget this whole cock-up had ever happened.

Anything else was unacceptable.

Xxx

Aziraphale was also not having a good day.

The why of it, and the circumstances surrounding the day in question were a little beyond him at the moment, as he had been deeply unconscious for some time now and had only just begun to come out of it. 

He made a vague struggle for consciousness. It was like kicking upward through a sea of lumpy porridge. Distressingly plain porridge. He got a bit sidetracked by stopping to add a generous amount of cream, sugar, and a few chunks of banana to his metaphor to brighten it up. It cheered him a little, but he had to gather himself again to remember what he was doing. Ah yes.

Consciousness.

There was some feeling coming back now. What physical bits of himself he began to access were weak and disoriented, sore all over.

Something was coming to him in piecemeal bits and pieces.

Crowley.

Crowley had been there. Oh, yes. Aziraphale had been holding him, his corportaion abandoned and his soul gone back Down, but Aziraphale hadn’t been able to let him go yet. It had been too close, far too close to loosing him.

He remembered finally slumping over, loosing all feeling in his fingers as a horrible burning started through his veins and his head pounded with every beat of his heart.

There were other sounds now filtering in. Vaguely familiar sounds, ones he’d heard before, but not like…

A steady rhythmic _beep, beep beep_, cut through the thick porridge of his mind, like a submarine rising up from the lumpy depths of the bowl. Voices, a strange whirring sound, and light, far too bright, too harsh.

Oh. He hadn’t been discorporated.

Aziraphale couldn’t quite feel his body. There was the sense of pain, but it was disjointed, dulled. Moved just a bit to the left and a few shuffles down. He could feel the echo of the venom, still pulsing sluggishly through his veins. Something thick and heavy lay over everything, numbing, dulling, that horrible sterile scent thick and cloying, making his skin crawl and his teeth ache.

With great effort his eyes fluttered open. There was a white ceiling, faces, blaring lights, green medical masks.

_Hospital_, his brain informed him.

He couldn’t move, whatever they had given him forcing his limbs into uselessness. His tongue was too heavy, too thick in his mouth.

Voices rose, the beeping speeding up. A green mask leaned over him, the terrible florescent light partially blocked by the looming form, still to bright, too harsh.

His heartbeat spiked. Terror coursed through his veins, giving the venom a run for its money.

Oh good heavens. He was in the ER. In _surgery_.

Xxx

It was ridiculous, this fear of his.

Angels were armed with the ability to heal the sicknesses and wounds of the mortal world. They had done so since the Beginning, though it was something to be done sparingly. Subtly. The Almighty moved in mysterious ways, as the humans liked to say.

It was more what Divine Headquarters liked to call tacit non-interference policy. Aziraphale suspected it was all based on some vague chain of command filtered down in broken telephone to the lower Choirs. Heaven allowed only so much miracling. Sickness and ails of the body had to take their course. There were lessons to be learned from them, beneficial to the immortal soul.

What these lessons _were_ Aziraphale never could figure out.

He’d tried arguing with Gabriel about it once, pointing out that there might be more people feeling grateful and full of piety if they survived instead of perishing in horrible nasty ways. Gabirel disagreed. It had been Decided, and therefore was Right, and to go against the wishes of Heaven was Wrong, and that was that. Aziraphale had nicked Gabriel’s fancy fountain pen on the way out in a fit of petty vengeance.

It never sat well in Aziraphale’s stomach, the subtle message whispered into his head _not this one_ when he couched over a fallen form on a bloodied battle field, _not this one_ as he approached the sickbed of a frail child, wracked with disease. Over the millennium it was one of his roles. Visit sanitariums, infirmaries, places of healing, and save some but not others, easing their way if there was nothing else he could do.

The strange unease hadn’t truly set in until the Institutionalization of Medicine. Aziraphale had lived through many plagues*. He’d walked across countless battlefields. It wasn’t pleasant, but he had done it.

*Not just plagues but _Plagues_ capital P. Less said about those the better.

Then the humans had made advances. Wonderful advances! Medicine had begun to properly develop, something he himself had had a hand in, preventing the old diseases and slowly but surely beating Pestilence back into retirement.

Such things they could do! Insulin, organ transplants, blood transfusions, cataract reconstruction surgeries. Vaccines. It had been a resounding triumph*.

*Even as the Institutionalization of Medicine brought its own evils and complications. Witch-hunts, violent murders of hundreds of midwives, the banning of the old practices that had saved countless lives, and pharmaceutical companies skyrocketing prices for medicine, to name a few. Crowley had gotten a commendation on anti-vaxers, but that was one the humans had done all on their own.

And yet.

And _yet_.

The sight of a sterile needle piercing the skin of an arm…

Bodies hooked up to strange (wonderful, life-saving!) machines, tubes snaking out from under blankets, under the skin. Syringes full of liquids, needles so sharp and bright, waiting to pierce the skin and pump its contents directly into the vein…

It wasn’t _fair_. Aziraphale really was only borrowing his corporation. It was a _body_. It wasn’t really him. It was nevertheless hard not to get attached.

The more he felt at home in his body, the more he thought of it as _himself_, and once you’d opened the door to _that_ it was a whole Pandora’s Box of strange impulses and fears utterly attached to the human psyche and having no place in the mind of an ethereal being that came rushing out—

It was the smell. That horrible sterile smell. The sounds. Hospitals at the best of times left him light headed and shaky. He still went about his duties, but…he was careful. To not look to closely, not listen in on conversations, eyes skittering away from clear bags of fluid, needles laying sharp and ready in a pile, a glittering tray of instruments, terrible to look upon even for all the good they did.

In short, Aziraphale was squeamish. Embarrassingly so.

If he had been required to give blood tests on the regular, Aziraphale would have quickly become notorious with the clinic staff for tittering nervously, squirming while trying to bare his arm, and passing out spectacularly in a dead swoon before the needle ever touched his skin.

He’d managed bloody battlefields with something approaching grace but the sight of a modern hospital made him tense, made the blood rush to his head and his hands shake.

It was terribly silly of him. To pale at the sight of a needle, of blood being drawn—when it was saving lives! When it was doing so much good! It was some strange silly quirk, some great entity having a laugh, that his body should quake, tremble and go faint at the thought of such things, when he was required to work closely with them. When angels were all but made for that purpose.

But, as always, Aziraphale seemed determined to be the single divine outlier of the flock.

And so, finding himself finally on the other side of the knife—laid out on steely operation table, weak and ailing, machines and tools put to use on his flesh, the green-masked specters of medical professionals looming over him with bright florescent lights glaring down unblinkingly—Aziraphale, Angel of the Lord did then faint.

He fled terrified back into merciful unconsciousness, awareness skittering off and away like a jar of live spiders smashed on ceramic tile, to such uneasy dreams that waited him there in the dark.

Xxx

It was the shortest time Crowley had ever been left waiting for a new corporation. In just under sixteen hours he was slipping his new body on, shaking out the joints and settling into the meat and bone of it, twisting and stretching until it snapped into shape, like pulling on a glove and wriggling the fingers a bit.

It had been only under sixteen hours, yet it had felt as long as the whole blasted fourteenth century.

Crowley wasted no time in Surfacing, popping up in Piccadilly Circus and slinking back against a wall to avoid the throng of people. He gave a low, very specific whistle and waited, pacing agitatively for his ride to arrive. The Bentley rolled up to the curve and he dove at it, the door opening to catch him mid-dive. He landed in the drivers seat, smooth leather and shiny metal welcoming him, fitting around him like a glove. He floored it to the bookshop.

The bookshop was closed.

Aziraphale wasn’t there.

Crowley stood alone inside. The bookshelves watched him, a question whispering among the old leather covers and worn yellowed pages, hanging in the air with the dust motes. It was the same question Crowley was desperately trying to answer himself.

The demon sat down on the floor abruptly, shutting his eyes and concentrating, wading out into the intricate web of souls swarming over London and searching for that one soul that shone brighter, that he knew better than even his own.

_There_

St. Thomas’ Hospital.

The door slammed shut behind him, dust swirling lazily from where it had been disturbed in his haste.

Xxx

The glass doors of the hospital slid open soundlessly, the demon stalking past sanitizer dispensers and posters urging visitors to not come if they had he flu. He sailed past the front desk, went around the directory and ignored the elevators in favour of the stairwell, promptly vaulting himself up several flights of stairs at once. He wasn’t in the mood for gravity, and it wasn’t in the mood to stand in his way.

What Crowley was doing was similar to using a GPS. It was simply much more complex and much much less convoluted all at once. His internal Aziraphale Locator had found its fixed point. It was just a matter of honing in on it.

Pushing open the door to the fourth floor he felt he was close. A forked tongue flickered out, tasting the air and catching the scent he was chasing. He followed it down a hallway, past another desk and into another ward, more glass doors and sanitizers guarding the entrance.

A man at a desk looked up at him, tried to stop him. “Sir, this is a protected ward, you need to wear a gown and mask.”

“No I don’t.”

The man suddenly fell into a deep sleep. Crowley stepped inside, past one door, another, and then…

It was a small room, darker, full of large specialized machines, filling the air with low humming and whirling, a constant beeping louder than all. It was enough to overshadow the single bed in the midst of it all. 

The beeping sped up, becoming erratic as he entered.

Wide brown eyes met his own.

“Angel,” breathed Crowley.

“_Crowley?_”

He was at Aziraphale’s side in an instant, sinking down into a hastily miracled chair and taking his hand. “Didn’t think to bring any flowers,” he heard himself saying, stroking the angel’s hand, drinking in the sight of him. “Should have picked you up some flowers. At least a plush toy…”

“Oh _Crowley_—you’re all right. You’re _here_.”

Aziraphale looked awful. Sickly and sallow in an awful hospital gown, the angel was unnaturally flushed. He could feel the venom through the skin of his hands, pulsing sluggishly through his veins. It was faint though, had thinned dramatically. He was fighting it off. Aziraphale was going to be just fine.

The relief hit him so hard his vision blurred.

Crowley pulled his angel carefully into a hug, _needing_ to touch, to feel that his angel was _safe_ if not yet well, to have the unspeakable comfort of his soft weight in his arms. Aziraphale lent into the hug as best he could from his reclined position, breathing out shakily into Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh, It’s _so_ good to see you well again, my dear,” whispered Aziraphale.

Crowley held him just a bit tighter. “Angel. Oh _Angel_. I was so worried.” He rocked them slowly, only to stop when Aziraphale tensed up, a pained sound escaping him.

He pulled back, worried eyes running over the angel for some hurt that had been aggravated. Crowley finally registered the tubes snaking out from the sheets, the drips sunk into soft skin held in place by gaze and bandages. His eyes zeroed in Aziraphale’s other hand, the one furthest away from him. He’d been _handcuffed_ to the bed. 

There was a strange ringing in Crowley's ears. He stared at the cuff, trapping one of Aziraphale's lovely plump hands in place, cinching around his wrist. 

He realized belatedly that he was angry. Really, _properly_ angry. That's what it was, _ring ring_, time for vengeance. It was so tempting to give into that feeling, to rage and chase down whoever was _responsible_-

NO

With effort he pushed down the wrath rising deep in his soul. He knew of Aziraphale’s fear of hospitals, of needles. Last thing he needed was for Crowley to get angry. He needed to stay calm and get his angel home and safe. 

_Then_ he could get angry.

“Oh sweetheart, what did they do to you?”

“I—“ Aziraphale’s voice wavered. He sniffed. He looked very small. “There’s been some trouble. They’ve been…asking questions. Found me next to—to your _body_. Ah…ha. Didn’t look…terribly good on my part, and I haven’t any identification certificates. Got reprimanded for that…couldn’t find any records of me, and I haven’t been up to mircaling anything, so…”

The handcuff sprang open, then fizzled painfully out of existence for its sins. Aziraphale gratefully pulled his freed hand closer to himself. Crowley gathered it up, pressing a gentle kiss to the soft underside of the wrist, healing any abrasions that dared to trespass on holy ground.

“The-the venom,” continued Aziraphale, shutting his eyes for a long moment. “They didn’t know what it was, or why I was healing like I was. Unnatural, you see. They’ve—surveillance. Watching me. It’s too suspicious, too many questions—“

The surveillance cameras around the room all spontaneously imploded, recorded footage rewriting itself into an eternal looping rick-roll*. 

*It was petty, but so was Crowley, and it would have given him much pleasure to watch the faces of the poor sods who had to try and recover the data.

“Right. Let’s get you out of this.”

He reached for the gauze at Aziraphale’s elbow.

The angel jerked back from the touch, panic making his eyes wide.

“I-I’m sorry, “ Aziraphale choked out, folding in on himself. He was shaking. “So sorry.”

Crowley carefully gathered him up in a hug, careful not to pull anything. “_Don’t_ be. It’s going to be all right.”

“I know it’s s-silly. They’re just–just _needles_. It’s not—it’s not—“

Crowley hushed him. “Oh sweetheart, no. You’re not silly. Ok, you are a little silly,” he amended fondly, “but not about this.” Aziraphale made a soft sound. He pressed a kiss to the angel’s cheek. “I’m getting you out, angel. Trust me. Let your wily old serpent take care of things, hmm?”

Aziraphale clung to him tighter, “Trust you, dearheart,” his voice was muffed by the demon’s coat. “Of _course_ I do. More than anything.” He finally pulled back, giving Crowley a stiff nod.

“Eyes up here, angel.” Cowley vanished his sunglasses with a thought, all the better to see his angel with. “Don’t watch my hands, you just look at me now.”

The angel huffed a desperate laugh, hands clenching nervously in the sheets. “Oh that’s…that's hardly a chore.”

Crowley grinned at him. “Can’t say I’m complaining about my view either.” As deftly as he could, the demon peeled back the gauze and closed his fingers around the largest drip.

Abruptly Aziraphale froze, all the colour draining from his face. He whimpered, feeling the tubes attached to him pull in the most awful way, his stomach churning, blood rushing to his head in a dizzying rush…

“No, no no, Aziraphale, look at me, _look_ at me.”

With considerable effort Aziraphale got himself under control enough to raise his head, fighting back the dark splotches dancing around the edges of his vision.

Glowing eyes met his own, yellowed and slitted as any serpent. Mesmerizing, strangely beautiful, the kind of eyes you could get lost in, that could draw you in, lure you into their depths and leave you there, ever to wander and never to find your way out…

“That’sssss it, angel. Lissssten to _me_.”

There was a hint of a Suggestion in his voice, just a touch of infernal temptation, a comforting lulling telling Aziraphale that if he listened to the voice everything bad would Go Away.

This was hypnosis, a part of Aziraphale’s mind recognized.

Using their innate powers against each other went strictly against the Arrangement. Had this been any other situation Aziraphale would have been furious at such a low blow.

As it was, he knew exactly what Crowley was trying to do and latched onto the Suggestion like a drowning man grasping for a rope, tears of gratitude springing to his eyes as some of the dreadful hyper-awareness of his body began to fade, giving himself over to the strange, heavy calm coming over him.

Crowley pressed a desperate kiss to his forehead. “_That’sss_ it, angel. I’ve got you. You jussst let it all go away. You don’t feel it at all, hmm?”

Sufficiently under, Aziraphale barely tensed as the demon probed at the tube coming out of the crook of his arm.

There was a dreadful pinch, and then, and then…

It was out. 

Oh.

Somehow that was worse. It really wasn’t fair at all.

The world got a bit fuzzy at the edges after that, sound coming as if from very far away, or from the bottom of a murky pond dripping with slimy stones and moss and as many amphibians as you liked.

Breathing. Breathing was a thing to do.

It wasn’t necessary to an ethereal being like Aziraphale, nor to an occult one like Crowley, but when an occult or ethereal being hit a certain level of distress, the human body they resided in ended up taking the reins. All those optional pastimes like obeying the laws of gravity and pumping blood through veins became necessary.

Breathing. Oh, yes. He wasn’t doing it.

He really ought to. Silly habit to fall out of.

The first breath came from all around him. It didn’t feel like his own, yet it was like surfacing from a pool of sludge. He did it again, feeling his lungs filling, his body waking up, remembering what it was for and that it was his.

There was a noise in his ear. His face was pressed against a warm chest, the fold of a blazer smooshed against his cheek.

“Angel, _angel_, please, it’s over, you’re safe, they’re out, _please_ Aziraphale, don’t—don’t—“

Crowley.

“Hhhng,” he managed, taking a deep breath. His body settled around him, heavy and sore and horribly nauseous, held up entirely by the arms around him, and the chest he was held against.

“Aziraphale? Sweetheart, are you with me?”

“Cr’wly.” His tongue felt strange and heavy. The lights were too bright, too harsh. It reminded him of Heaven. The hospital. The surgery, tubes in his arms, needles…

He pressed closer to Crowley, shuddering uncontrollably.

“C’mon, I’ve got you, I’ve got you” Crowley said lowly in his ear. “We’re getting out, ok? Just hold on to me. We’re nearly through.”

Getting vertical was not a pleasant experience. Most of the last day and a bit hadn’t been, but perhaps the only good thing about this particular unpleasant bit was that there was a finish line in sight, a promised land of things Comfortable and Homey and away from this sterile, sickening place.

The way out of the hospital was a blur of florescent lights. Aziraphale clung to Crowley, head spinning and nausea threatening in a way that had little to do with his injuries and everything to do with the phantom feel of sharp metal under his skin. Crowley’s arm was wrapped tightly around his middle, holding him steady and pulling him along through the long hallways. Twice someone tried to stop them. They were quickly convinced it was a Bad Idea.

The hissing of the doors opening up into the cool night air was like the finest music to Aziraphale’s ears, an entire symphony, more glorious than any hallelujah. He breathed in the night chill greedily, the comforting, ordinary sounds of city settling around him like a balm.

“_Thank_ you, my dear,” he managed, finally beginning to feel more like himself.

Crowley shook his head mutely, a pained set to his features. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

This was the moment that Azirpahle’s legs decided to stage a coup d’etat, fed up with the way things had been going and promptly shutting the whole thing down without any input from the angel himself.

“No, no hold on,” murmured Crowley as Aziraphale swooned. “Almost there.”

“S’rry,” mumbled Aziraphale, Crowley the only thing holding him up. The relief was incredible. “Legs no’ working. Gone all wobbly. Out for lunch…”

Crowley blessed. He waved his hand. The Bentley came driving up to them, stopping in front of the curve. The door sprung open.

Aziraphale all but fell into the passenger seat, half-sprawling against the cushions. Crowley’s hands were on his shoulders, steadying him, tightening around him for a long moment before he stepped away, carefully closing the door once he was sure the angel was clear of it.

For a moment it was mercifully silent, no horrible whirlings and beepings of machines, just his own breathing and the familiar interior of the Bentley, so very comforting after his ordeal.

A shiver ran through him, the phantom feel of tubes and cold steel flashing through his mind, turning his stomach, draining the blood from his lips in a dizzying rush.

The Bentley’s heater turned itself on, sending warm air gushing towards him. Gratefully he leaned into it, patting the seat of the Bentley with a shaking hand in thanks. A seat-belt slithered across his side, tugging him gently back against the seat and fitting into place with a secure _snick_. Before he could mourn the distance from the heat, the heater picked up, warm air gushing out even further. Grateful, Aziraphale let his eyes shut and leaned back against the seat, tipping his head back.

“What a good Bentley you are,” he murmured. The engine purred softly at him in response.

The driver’s side opened and closed again. There was the rustling sound of clothing and then a heavy coat was being tucked around him, warm and covered in Crowley’s comforting scent. Aziraphale forced his eyes open, unsure of when they had closed. He tried to rouse himself, fighting back the heavy exhaustion that descended on him.

“No, no, you rest, sweetheart,” murmured Crowley, tucking his coat more securely around him. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

And finally, in lulled by the warm familiarity of Bentley, with his own dear Crowley by his side, Aziraphale believed it.

They both had had a very bad day.

The rest of this night would be spent softly, the angel and demon recovering, taking comfort from each other after their respective ordeals. They were together, they were safe if not yet quite well. But that would come.

A few days of rest, of comfort, of soft indulgences and gentle reassurances would see them right again soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Angsty hurt/comfort is my jam, ok? Especially with fluff. Can't have that without the fluff.
> 
> my [tumblr](https://ethereal-menace.tumblr.com/post/186753668942/another-angsty-hurtcomfort-ineffable-husbands)


End file.
